"Only someone as outstanding as you could have caught my eye. Only your distinctive character could make me forego my marriage. So you see, my dear Anne, you're not common at all. You're a woman above all women. And you'll be the mother of very uncommon children."
Chapter 21
Anne hated this dreary March day. It was wet and bone-chilling; the worst kind of afternoon for any activity. The rain held off so far, but the air was heavy enough to blanket any energetic spirit. She sat near the fire in the bower chambers. Alone, she contemplated the state of things while she listened to the wind and how it loosened a shutter so that it barraged the window mercilessly. So much had happened that she felt as if she had lived two lifetimes in thirteen months. Yet she still sat in limbo, rotting like the rich man watching Lazarus. Henry's desire for war against France had fizzled, the fire squelched by lack of funds and manpower. His only hope had been Catherine's success at gaining Charles V's support. But her nephew had turned her down, and she had failed.
"Cursed woman." Henry had stormed about in a fit as he told Anne. For some reason, it galled her to hear him speak so of the woman who had supported him the last eighteen years.
"Cursed, do you say?" She dared him. He spun to face her, one fox fire brow raised to brush his straight bang.
"Aye, cursed. And cursed I was to marry her."
Before Anne knew it, she was poking him in the chest with her finger.
"Maybe it’s you the one cursed, for you’ve still no son for all your trying. No coin enough to raise your army against Francois, despite the heavy burden of taxes on your people."
She strolled across the room as if she spoke calmly of the weather. His warning cough of air did nothing to hurry her. Instead she tied the shutters tighter and fingered the carved mahogany.
"Why, you can't even control the man whom you believe to be your greatest ally."
"And what has Cardinal Wolsey to do with Catherine’s wasted flesh?"
"Wasted flesh? Why, Sir, do you so hate her?"
He hung his head. "Waste of flesh, at this point," he corrected. "She was my last hope in gaining Charles’ aid. Now I shall have to prepare a treaty with that French whelp instead of war." His eyes dulled with petulance. "Damn her."
The sharp, flinty sound of tankard breaking to shards made Anne jump. That she had thrown the pottery to the stone floor shocked her even more.
"Again, you slander her. Would that you had some idea of a woman’s value. Did she not brave your seed time after time, trying to gain an heir for you, instead suffering as each one died? Have you no pity for the woman who waited as prisoner under your father’s rule while you were yet dallying with chamber maids?" Anne felt the momentum of her anger and let it carry her.
"And what of the Scottish King? Was it not Catherine’s ferocity that had his blood-soaked coat sent to you as a trophy while you played at war in France?"
She could tell she had touched a nerve with that one.
"Ah, yes, your grace. I may have been but a girl, but I remember the stories, and I harbor every one. I say it’s you who are cursed and can not even see it."
Henry said nothing, merely gaped at her first in outrage, then pity, and finally shame. He mustered his dignity, drained a mug of ale and turned heel from the chamber.
She didn’t see him again for days. Yes, there had been a new treaty. And an uneasy peace with France was forged, but there had been no fields of cloth-of-gold, no glittering show of wealth and brotherhood. It had been enough merely to entertain a few French envoys with jousting and feasting, on a day much like this one. Except then, it had rained miserably. A dreary darkness accompanied it, with pelting sheets that saturated the soul as well as skin. The jousting had gone on, and the dusk forced them to seek shelter finally, in a specially built banqueting house.
Yet, for all that, Anne brooded. She stared at her stocking and wondered if rain had become her messenger, for it always accompanied pivotal events. It had rained the day she was born, or so her mother told her. It had driven hard against the boat that took Mary to King Louis in France—with Anne at her elbow wondering what French Court would be like. Rain portended change and Anne suspected change in the air. The atmosphere of the castle felt cloistered in it, so heavy that it set her to worrying and pondering.
So she rose from her chair in front of the hearth and wandered about the apartments, hoping the scores of ladies would remain in the Great Hall and leave her to her solitude. The swath of purple fabric on the north wall rippled with draft. She stared at the various fruits painted on it in gold and yellow—how baroque they looked nestled against vivid crimson roses and verdigris leaves. She thought how the material had served as canopy on the day of the treaty feast, under which Catherine presided. Thoughts of that quickly fled from the guilt that rose after it. There was no doubt that Catherine had begun to see her as more than a passing fancy for Henry.
Already a rumor had swept court of Catherine’s knowledge—that during one of their daily chess games, she had said to Anne, "So I see mistress Boleyn, you shall not stop ’til you have your King."
It hadn’t happened, Catherine was still as civil and detached regarding Anne as she had always been, treating her like the lady-in-waiting she was, with no reference to her being Henry’s mistress. But she did begin to demand Anne spend more time with her, asking that she serve her more frequently and attend every mass with her. Oh, how Anne hated the early morning masses, and Catherine made her go to each one, kneeling for long hours before the pew and praying unceasingly. Anne had no doubt it was meant to stir her conscience. Instead she’d stare stubbornly at the gilded candelabras, watch tendrils of smoke whorl to the intricate murals on the ceiling.
She’d breathe the incense so deeply she tasted it, and the smoky stink of it. The panes of glass gave intimate study through the hazy moonlight that shone through. She’d study anything but her heart, anything but her conscience. She’d not let prayers wend their way into her soul, for with their admittance came the squirming. Rumors circulated the court maddeningly, gaining strength with each day. No one had yet begun to suspect the truth, however—that Henry aspired to a commoner, not some French princess as his new Queen. Henry's denial infected Anne—for the good of realm, wouldn't a solid and nubile queen be prudent? How could she stand herself otherwise? And with her father to press her, and Henry, giving in became easier, less stressing.
"You do naught wrong, Anne. Catherine can't provide for the succession." Her father kept insisting.
"The King will find someone to bear him the heir. If not you, then someone else. Better our family, than that other."
Anne could only lower her eyes before his bold face and penetrating black stare.
"Yes, yes, but is it right, Father? To press him so?"
Thomas' features had hardened then, making her uneasy.
"Do what you must. What you need to." He walked to her as if he would touch her, but as always the hand that would comfort, accused instead.
"England needs an heir. I'll do the rest. The Boleyns will be a power to reckon with yet."
She felt as if she hadn't done enough, hadn't succeeded.
With the passing of the months he did what he could, and soon a whole circle of support had engulfed her, and the power she gained ate away a few more scruples. Her conscience bore the meal uneasily, her moods changing erratically with its nagging. What nagged her most was that Henry didn’t stir the same passions in her as Harry had, didn’t sway her to think of him often, or desire his presence.
Henry was a man who was athletic, powerful, and seemingly omnipresent. He could be sensitive even, when the mood caught him, and passionate. But none of this stirred her soul, and she didn’t know why. She wanted him, she enjoyed him, but she didn’t love him. Damnation was surely inevitable. Court slander and hatred were her earthly penance. So, she sat staring into the hearth, speculating and thinking, knowing that she had gained much for some members of the court, and that no one appreciated it.
George whistled a tune as he dismounted. His horse huffed as if he didn’t much care for the sound.
"Aye, Montague." He thrummed his fingers against the wet neck.
"I need more practice, eh?" The morning mist had yet to draw away from the cobblestones, and George found the atmosphere oddly cleansing. His hair, which he brushed aside automatically, bled water into his eyes. Such a fine day this would be. Jayne at home; Anne waiting; a grand, though admittedly damp, ride through the streets; hearing the comforting clip-clop of his horse’s feet striking cobble—he may as well have been on his way to heaven. With hands on hips he surveyed the stable as it sat nestled in the shadow of the castle. Only six a.m., but the King’s grooms scurried about readying the horses for the day. It took a few minutes before he was noticed.
"Lord Rochford..." a boy of about eleven bowed hurriedly.
"May I take yer horse, sir?"
George grinned. "Ye may, boy. Have ye had yer breakfast, then?"
The boy’s eyes lit as if he had been offered half a crown.
"No, sir. Dare I ask ye’ll be getting me some mutton and ale?"
Leaning lazily against the door jam, George studied his nails as if they held the secrets of the Holy Grail. "Well, and then I might. You know the game, Tom."
"Aye, I do." Tom grinned. In a flash the boy ran to dig a worn wooden tablet from beneath a hay bale. Pasted onto the wood was a printed sheet. George raised his brow expectantly.
"Our... father... who... art... a... heathen..." Tom’s halting voice struggled over the words.
"In heaven." George chortled. "In heaven, Tom. Think ye God a heathen?" He tousled the boy’s blond hair.
A look of panic overtook Tom’s eager face. George shrugged. "It’s naught, Tom. You grow better each time I see you. I’ll see Anne sends you down a bite." He looked up to where the castle sat so dominantly against nature.
"But I’d best be getting on, lest she strike me before I dare ask."
He placed a quick, fond pat on Montague’s rump and set out to find Anne. Maybe they could breakfast together.
"I’m plied for favors even as I’m hated," Anne said to George as they sat together on a plush settee. Earlier they had finished a meal of mutton and ale—George having taken enough for two—and with her brother for company, she was able to persuade Catherine to allow her to shop in the markets for lace. Instead, Anne followed George to Henry’s apartments where they waited for the King’s return. The assembly of pages and courtiers made it difficult to speak privately, but he whispered close to her ear.
"You must expect it." George stretched his boots to the fire; his clean-shaven profile lit by the flickering light of the torch. She smiled and touched his hand. Sighing, she said,
"I expect to ask His Grace’s favor, but not to be loathed by the very people who ask for them."
"And who loathes you, Nan? Surely not Henry, certainly not I. You’re loathed by those who envy you, no one more."
"I’m loathed because Catherine is loved," she crossed her arms. His face fell flat, considering.
"If you loved His Grace, I’d stand with you against the Queen, against the country, against God. But if you found in His Grace only a means to prove your worth to this life, I’d stand with you against Satan himself."
She sighed.
"I wanted only a better station, was content to marry Harry. Now I’m far onto a path I had no intention of walking, and I feel lonely and hated."
Before George could shrug, a muffled voice sounded outside the door. She sat up straight, quickly pasting a look of eagerness on her face to replace the ones of doubt. He rose to his feet, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. In no time he had filled a goblet with red wine and passed it to her.
"Remember, Nan, there is naught in life worth having that comes not at some price. You must decide whether the cost is just." He smiled and made to join the rest of the attendants. She nodded, knowing he was right, and that the biggest price of having Henry would be being forsaken by God. She doubted whether she still had the currency to pay.
"What kept you?" She held the glass out for Henry, then pulled it back quickly to take a drink from it. She saw the thirst in his eye as he watched her.
"Matters of State," he mumbled. The shuffling of his feet as he came to her made her think he was weary, and she pressed the goblet into his hand. He took a languid drink, studying her face all the while. She felt her face flush.
"It’s always matters of state, Rex. I'm beginning to believe you make it all up, just to stay away from me." She pouted, thinking as she did, that Marguerite would disapprove. But then, Marguerite’s station was secure. She need pout for no one.
He put down the wine, onto the smooth cherrywood table, and took her hand. She could smell soap from his shaving—the stray cheek hairs, she supposed. There was also the musty smell of clothes, and grease on his skin. She supposed he had made a recent trip to the kitchens.
"You're quite right." His dimple showed as he grasped her fingers and led her to the settee in the corner.
"I want to be as far away from you as I can possibly get." And in a low voice he said, "Because you tease me over much."
She grinned, catching the innuendo.
"You don't like?"
"I'd like it better if there was some relief from it." He pulled her to his lap as he sat.
"Ah," she said, raising one brow in apparent understanding.
"So, you need relief, do you?" With a fluid motion, she stroked his sleek cheek, and scratched beneath his beard.
"No," he sighed, his chest heaving with what she thought was indifference. "I get that from my wife."
She gasped. Blast if her mouth wouldn’t work right. She couldn’t utter an intelligible word, but bolted from his lap anyway, spluttering and spitting.
"Ack!" Was the only thing she managed to get out. And the sound echoed against the stone wall in every gap in the tapestries that covered it. From somewhere outside the haze of rage, she heard the hurried scuffling of a court assembly escaping. The heavy thud of a door sounded as she was closed off in the presence chamber with Henry. She thought she’d scream.
"Ack!" She spat again, and reached for his neck where the soft rolls of flesh had begun to sag. She wanted to dig at those rolls, tear them to ragged strips of bloody flesh. But in the next instant, she heard a hollow gush of breath as he lifted her, then dropped her to the cushions. Her lungs burned from the sudden forced exhale. They felt raw from the expulsion. She pushed at him.
"Get off me! I can't breathe." The dust from the cushions had gone up her nose, and now she itched to sneeze.
"Here," he said, his face descending to hers. "Let me help you."
He obviously didn't think she should be shocked, that she had no right to feel angry. But she twisted away. He could burn in Hell before she let him kiss her again. At least, until he apologized. He still shared Catherine’s bed, for appearance's sake, he said. Every Londoner believed the King and his Queen were still trying to secure an heir, though he steadfastly maintained to his mistress that he was not. Humph, appearances indeed, she would be sure to put a halt to that. She turned to stare at the velvet back of the settee.
"No," she answered, "I'd rather smother."
He laughed at her, maddening her still, and she felt his belly shake against hers as he did.
"If you can argue," he noted. "You can breathe. I doubt you'll smother."
"Then I'll hold my breath." Foolish statement, she knew, but what else could she say beneath nearly twenty stone of royal flesh.
"And I'll keep holding it, until you apologize." He studied her.
"Then you'll be holding it for a long time." It became clear he didn't feel a need to apologize, and that she shouldn't expect it. Her resolve hardened.
"That'll be the only thing I hold for a long time." She gave him equal study. Square in the majestic blue eyes, and she refused to blink. Let him think about that for a while. It took a moment, but the ominous warning made him relax a bit
, then she felt his weight ease. His sigh ruffled her hair. It smelled of grease and bacon.
"God’s blood, you win. I'm sorry I mentioned Catherine." He sounded contrite, but the next moment, stubbornly defended himself.
"But she is my wife. And I am a man—like every other. I need solace."
Instead of offering it, as she knew the plea expected, she replied with something better—changing the subject as adroitly as she could.
"You're wrong. Not just a man like every other. You're the King; powerful, vibrant." She kissed him, hoping the response would be answer enough for the moment.
She endured his inept kisses, wondered how a man so powerful, so greedy in his tastes and wants could be so terrible at love-making. Almost as if, secure in his position, he felt he didn't have to possess such a skill. His tongue was short and thick, and he drooled into her mouth, uncaring that the loud slurps sickened her. At least, he was a bit—but not much—better with his hands.
She let him caress her, guiding his hand to her breast and holding it there. He squeezed, and she muffled a sigh of impatience. His caresses were always rough, never gentle. Over and over again, she tried to show him how she wanted him to touch her—but he didn't take lessons well. So once again, she lifted his palm, slowly, intimately, and brushed her own nipple with his fingers. Light touch, feather strokes. She sighed again, this time with pleasure. She let his hand travel to her thigh and up under her gown. She yearned for the intimacy, whether it was clumsy or not. She needed to feel she wanted him more than her own life. Instead she found herself wondering what treasures he would bestow on her if she gave in. That in turn led her to the realization of what he would not, if she did. Abruptly, almost viciously, he pushed her deeper into the cushions so he stretched fully atop her. His hips ground deep into her own, demanding submission. All the layers of clothing did nothing to camouflage the intensity of his desire. The scores of nibbles he trailed down her throat and to her chest grew more demanding. When he suckled her lobe it was with a frenzied urgency that left her resenting his enforced submission.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 11
